


Taabistaan

by avani



Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Background Relationships - Freeform, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 05:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14098596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: What Jodhaa never before realized about spring is that its green glory always fades into a far less temperate summer.





	Taabistaan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllegoriesInMediasRes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/gifts).



What Jodhaa never before realized about spring is that its green glory always fades into a far less temperate summer; and summers in Amer are worst of all. The world seems a furnace, and Jodhaa, accustomed by now to Agra’s cool fountains and shadowed gardens, feels her forehead bead with sweat.  


When the sun reaches its zenith, her mother retires to her chambers; Jodhaa, then, is free to spend her afternoons as she wishes. That, more often than not, is to retreat to the roof despite her ladies’ protests. Sometimes she takes her needlework with her, sometimes one of her father’s books, but every time her eyes drift inevitably eastwards.  


Her ladies are no fools. “If you must sit out here, Princess,” Neelakshi murmurs, “let me line your eyes with kohl; you will go blind, staring into this heat.”  


Jodhaa does not argue, finding herself far too fatigued to deny any of these accusations; she sits back mutely and allows Neelakshi to go about her work.  


As Neelakshi’s fingers touch her eyelashes, a hoarse voice begins to sing in the courtyard below, low and throaty. Jodhaa has heard that song a thousand times before, but never understood it until now: it speaks to her of anger, of betrayal, of loss a thousand times over.  


“Bring her to me, please,” Jodhaa asks, and Neelakshi, always obedient, springs to her feet.  


The singer, at first, seems hardly older than Jodhaa; but a closer look reveals wrinkles about her eyes and mouth that suggest otherwise. She folds long, elegant hands and rasps: “How might I be of service, Princess?”  


Now that the singer stands before her, Jodhaa finds herself at a loss for words. She had not had any particular request in mind, only a sense that like should be drawn to like, or—or that no woman could sing of such things without experiencing them herself. If the singer had survived it, then perhaps Jodhaa might as well.  


Such things cannot be spoken aloud. Jodhaa studies her silk skirts instead.  


“You sing with great emotion.” A safe enough observation.  


The singer bows her head in thanks. “It is no more than what I feel.”  


“Did you compose that song yourself?”  


“The words are ancient as are my bones, Princess; they were taught to me by my mother, and her mother before her.”  


Jodhaa is fairly certain the other woman is laughing at her “That is old indeed,” she says, for lack of anything else more clever.  


“So too are the aching hearts of woman.” The singer bends towards her. “That is why it speaks to you.”  


Another woman might take offense at such familiarity; Jodhaa finds herself relieved. “Did it speak to you as well?”  


“Once.” The woman smiles. “When the world was young, and I was in love.”  


“Where is he now?”  


“Ah.” The singer pauses, but does not look away. “Such a man who could capture me has not yet drawn breath, Princess.”  


Before her marriage, Jodhaa might have misunderstood, maybe even intentionally; but now she comprehends all too well how contrary to all common sense and convention love can be. By any measures, a Mughal, even be he the man from whom her father had bought peace by bartering her, is by far the more inappropriate choice.  


“I am sorry,” Jodhaa whispers, “for your sadness.”  


And truly she is; what sort of princess, what sort of woman, is she; to be so blind to the suffering of her fellows? Jodhaa before might have been so lucky as to be ignorant of longing; Jodhaa now is not.  


“As I am for yours.” Jodhaa blushes in confusion, but the singer continues on without shame. “The heat truly is most terrible to bear, is it not?” Suddenly, she clicks her tongue. “But look there, on the horizon!” As one, Jodhaa and her ladies gaze upwards. “Do you not see it, Princess? 

There is a cloud that hovers on the east.”  


The sky above is a crisp, unforgiving blue. Softly, one of her ladies begin to giggle.  


The singer smiles serenely, her eyes on Jodhaa, her words a message for her alone. “The rains will come soon,” she whispers. “The rains always return.”

**Author's Note:**

> * Taabistaan is, as far as I can tell, the Persian word for “summer.” Jalal is clearly fluent in Persian—he quotes it during the duel between him and Jodhaa—and so this seemed appropriate.  
> * Prompted by AllegoriesinMediaRes for a character + randomly selected poem challenge, and who sent Jodhaa and what turned out to be “To Atthis,” by Sappho herself. With that in mind, this seemed the most logical direction for the fic to go!


End file.
